


Raze the earth, mon frere

by Fatale (femme)



Series: This complicated thing we have [11]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:18:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal goes to Lowes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raze the earth, mon frere

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, posted to LJ a while ago and forgot to upload it here. :(
> 
> Thought I was done with this series. Surprise!

Neal has ideas, not bad ideas per se, just ideas about how things should be done and how things are done, small fantasies of idyllic neighborhood life and what he was cosigning himself to when moving in with Peter and Elizabeth. 

He goes to Lowes, buys an entire tray of petunias, some tulip bulbs on sale in a soft wrinkled brown paper bag. He buys dirt (which he doesn’t really get -- dirt should be free, right?) and borrows some tools from the shed. 

He follows the instructions on the back of the bag, plants the bulbs about two inches deep, plops the small plugs of flowers into the bed, watering them carefully.

They’re dead a week later.

“Root rot. God, Moz,” Neal complains over the phone. Living with the Burkes has the benefit of not coming home to Mozzie drinking all his best wine, pawing through his cabinets and drawers, but also with the detriment of not coming home to Mozzie and having someone non-law abiding to bitch about his day with.

There’s a small pause over the line, a thin crackle, and Neal wonders how many lines this call is routed through. “This is important to you?” Mozzie asks in the same tone he might use to inquire if Neal thought sleeping next to a pet python was a good idea. 

“I think it is,” Neal says, surprised. Clearly he’s more invested in gardening than he thought.

“Right,” Mozzie says before the line disconnects.

Neal’s left staring at his phone, blinking and wondering just what he’s just done.

 

\---

 

He notices within weeks that every home on the block is surrounded by death; the smell of rotting topiary literally fills the air, all the while the Burke's house remains pristine, flourishes. The petunias that mysteriously showed up three weeks ago are a deep, rich pink and flourishing. Neal suspects there are bulbs beneath the soft soil, surprises for the spring, maybe the fall.

His neighbors shoot him dirty looks at the grocery store. The elderly lady that lives across the street and tends to her prize roses obsessively, bumps into his cart pointedly without apologizing.

Elizabeth stares out the sitting room window, brows kitted in confusion. Peter doesn’t say anything, Neal’s pretty sure he doesn’t even notice. He’s working on a new case, which he’s not supposed to share the details of with anyone outside the office, but Neal knows he will with enough time, careful wheedling and a few glasses of wine. Neal has to keep his skills sharp somehow.

“Mozzie,” Neal says as pleasantly as he can, “what did you do?”

“I may have,” Mozzie says hesitantly, proudly, “salted the earth -- just a little.”

Neal’s not sure whether to be horrified or touched. In recent memory, he can’t recall anyone other than Moz committing domestic terrorism just for him. “I--uh, thanks?” Neal says. 

“You’re welcome,” Mozzie says, indulgence and rare affection bleeding over the phone, over the dull static, the distance. 

“Thank you,” Neal says more firmly. Before he hangs up, he adds, “Please stop salting our neighbors' yards.”

“Whatever,” Mozzie replies dismissively.

 

\---

 

The lawn ornaments show up a couple of weeks later, all wrapped carefully in bubble wrap and packing peanuts, tucked in a wooden crate that nearly reaches Neal’s shoulders. Neal signs for it with a flourish --- his real signature, or real enough anyway.

He unpacks the ornaments and sets them out in the tiny front yard in aesthetically pleasing patterns. 

“Why is there a penis in our flowerbed?” Peter asks when he gets home, eyes wide, barely in the front door. There’s a pretty flush across his cheeks that Neal takes a moment to admire before answering. 

“It’s not a penis, it’s a mushroom,” Neal explains patiently. “Why would I have a penis in the front yard?”

“That’s what I was asking,” Peter says. “And where did all the garden gnomes come from?”

“Mozzie.”

“Of course,” Peter says and drops his head, taking a deep breath. Neal twitches back the curtain to steal another glance at the front yard: it really looks fantastic. He can’t stop staring. 

In the idle minutes between cons, he hadn’t exactly imagined this -- his brain was suited for lines, plans, exact mixtures of paints to create an aged effect -- but he’d wondered half-heartedly what his life might look like years down the road; if he could stay one step in front of the law and maybe have a house full of framed photos, tacky lawn ornaments, flowers that bloom year-round. 

“It looks good, Neal,” Peter says, voice suspiciously soft, and Neal glances at him. Peter’s not looking at the yard. He’s studying Neal carefully, eyes bright, smile lingering at the edges of his beautifully-shaped mouth.

 

\---

 

“Why is there a blue penis in front of the house?” El asks, keys jangling, purse, portfolio and briefcase a hopeless tangle on her shoulder. Neal and Peter are staring out the window, Peter’s arm looped casually around Neal’s waist.

“I hate you both,” Neal says.

 

 

The end.


End file.
